


Fried Green Tomatoes

by orphan_account



Category: Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Collecting Canon Into a Blender to Create a Cherry Picked Smoothie, Cuddling, Established Relationship, Fluffy, Forgetting to eat, House Husband Aesthetic, M/M, Old Knee Injury Mention, Referenced Sex, Slade Wilson in a Henley, Southern Cooking, Two Men Standing 0 Feet Apart Because They're In Love, Understated Acknowledgement of Slade's Canon Southern Background, bad self care, farmers market, undereating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 08:55:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20757704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Slade goes to a farmers market.





	Fried Green Tomatoes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [apprenticenanoswarm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apprenticenanoswarm/gifts).

> I have not seen the movie Fried Green Tomatoes, the title comes from the actual southern dish fried green tomatoes, which are delicious, please no one report me to the Deep South, they will take away my birth certificate and burn it if they discover I haven't seen that movie. 
> 
> Inspired by a great Tumblr analysis by apprenticenanoswarm re: Slade Wilson in Titans (2018). This does not take place in that verse, Sad Dad Slade is appropriate for every single universe; he is, one could say, universal.

Dick slept serenely by Slade’s side, his long eyelashes resting above impossible cheekbones. The pale sunrise filtering past the curtains enveloped Dick in an understated glow that framed the slope of his bare shoulder. Dick was a beatific sleeper; Slade could write Homeric hymns about Dick in sleep if he were one to do anything as undignified or involved as that. But Slade wasn’t involved.

Slade gingerly brushed aside the wavy locks of black hair that had fallen across Dick’s face, long enough to brush the cupid’s bow of his lips. He needed a haircut; Slade would offer him one when he woke.

Unable to sleep, Slade extricated himself from Dick’s long limbs to roll over onto his back. Dick would also need breakfast (or, more likely given the time, lunch). His appearance on Slade’s Gotham doorstep the evening before had been a surprise, Slade hadn’t stocked the safe house like he usually did for their dalliances. Not that the kid couldn’t feed himself, and not as if Dick didn’t act surprised every time Slade deigned to feed him.

But Dick’s ribs had been noticeable when he’d ridden Slade, and he’d been uncharacteristically sluggish when fucking Slade afterward. He damn near fell asleep during their third round.

Slade turned on his side to soak in Dick’s relaxed, Adonic face. Dick likely needed protein. He had a bad [read: bat] habit of subsisting when working. Once, Slade had broken into Dick’s apartment only to find mountains of granola bar wrappers and microwavable soup containers. He hadn’t even stolen the information he’d been sent to steal, he wasted too much time cleaning up the place and then Dick arrived home. Slade slept with him, and then stole the information from Jason instead. 

[Slade had wanted to confront Bruce over that particular case and Dick’s welfare, but it wasn’t Slade’s place. And so, he’d hired several, bored attorneys, collected several, mangled plaintiffs, and nudged forward hefty civil rights litigation against the GCPD which resulted in the GCPD dismantling the Bat-signal for nine months. The plaintiffs chose to settle for an undisclosed amount shortly after Dick punned at Slade for the first time in as many months.]

So, it wasn’t unusual for Dick to look frail in Slade’s bed, or for Dick to be lethargic, or for Dick to sleep like the dead even with Slade shifting about. Per his own admission, Dick had been working a case for several weeks, one he’d only just wrapped up when he’d appeared on Slade’s doorstep the night before with nothing but a smirk and a bottle of Angel’s Envy bourbon.

Dick shifted in his sleep, and Slade took that opportunity to slip out of the sheets, padding to the closet and dressing for the grocery store. He hadn’t been prepared for Dick’s arrival, but he could at least be prepared for Dick’s waking up.

On principle, Slade didn’t buy groceries in Gotham. There were too many chemical plants, homemade venoms, mass poisonings, metahuman occurrences, and biological disasters, even for imports. And so, by the time he crossed the bridge and drove the 70 some-odd miles to a farmer’s market, it was just after 8 am and the market was freshly opened.

In a Henley and work jeans, Slade blended well enough with the sparse crowd and co-op farmers (even if his eyepatch garnered a few glances) and so Slade took his time milling about the stands and comparing the products. With the intention of a making Dick a protein forward omelet, Slade gathered eggs, herbs, ricotta, whole milk, and cruciferous greens, but found himself caught at the tomatoes.

Normally, he bought Dick cherry and grape tomatoes. Dick ate them like candy while watching cartoons in his briefs, and it had been the only way for Slade to wrest actual candy from his fingertips. But Dick needed more calories than a handful of cherry tomatoes, or roma tomatoes, or beefsteak tomatoes, or heirloom tomatoes, or any of the tomatoes on display by the nervous farmer whose polite smile had fallen into something more wary with the passage of time spent in front of her stand.

Slade returned her grimace; if Grayson stopped starving himself, maybe Slade could finally settle on a tomato. The kid looked like he hadn’t remembered to eat in weeks, but he’d remembered Slade’s preferred Kentucky bourbon.

An idea struck Slade.

* * *

Dick did not stir awake so much as he clawed his way into consciousness. His head pulsed, his muscles ached, and his bad knee throbbed faintly. He felt battered and bruised, but the smell of bacon and the spitting of hot grease cut through the ringing in his ears to coax him from Slade’s bedroom, into the kitchen. Warmth blossomed in his cramping gut.

At the stove, in a linen apron, a heather-blue Henley, and worn, well-fitted jeans, Slade prodded a frying pan with a metal spatula. Used, neatly stacked bowls and fresh produce framed Slade on either side of the gas stove. Dick couldn’t see the strap of Slade’s eyepatch, and Slade’s soft, unburdened hair practically keened for Dick’s twitching fingers. Before Dick could satisfy the desperate cry, and without turning around, Slade gestured to the modest dining nook.

“Sit. Eat,” Slade ordered gruffly. With a wry grin, Dick complied, sauntering over to the dining table with an exaggerated swagger to hide his subdued limp.

“I think I’m developing a farmhouse kink,” Dick offered, settling onto the nook bench.

Slade didn’t answer, not until he placed an elegantly plated but absurdly hefty omelet in front of Dick, along with a glass of juice too saturated to be orange juice.

“Slade?” Dick asked, blinking at the spread. Slade grunted.

“Does your knee need ice?” Slade asked.

Dick flushed. “What? No, it’s—”

“I didn’t cause that limp, kid,” Slade warned, crossing his arms. He’d pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, and Dick eyed his thick, hairy forearms. Dick salivated.

“Uh, yeah, no. It’s fine, just a little sore. It’s probably just the weather. I’ll put the brace on later,” Dick promised. Slade grunted again and returned to the stove. Dick picked up his fork and stared down his monster of an omelet. “You’re such a gentleman, I didn’t expect breakfast,” Dick murmured, prodding at the egg behemoth. He was 90% sure there was whole broccoli in it. Perhaps an entire chicken, too.

Slade snorted, and Dick grinned, cutting away a bit with his fork and popping it in his mouth. It was predictably delicious, but Dick’s stomach turned uncomfortably, and he set his fork down to sip at the juice.

“Carrot?” Dick asked, before going in for another sip.

“Carrot ginger,” Slade clarified. “It’s good for inflammation and stomach upset." Dick hid his scowl in his glass. Slade couldn't possibly know about his stomach, and yet. "Also," Slade continued, "it’s good for your blood pressure, immunity, and prostate.”

Dick choked on his juice.

“I’m only 27!” he hissed. Slade shrugged.

“Preventative measures,” Slade offered. Dick scowled and chipped away at his omelet, mostly just tearing it apart and nibbling here and there in search of the bacon he could still smell.

“Don’t play with your food,” Slade chided, setting another plate in front of Dick. This one had fried circles of some sort, and Dick squinted at them warily. Slade also set down a creamy, orange-tinted sauce in a tiny bowl.

“Did you deep fry polenta?” Dick asked, prodding at golden brown rounds. Slade didn’t answer, not until he fetched his own plates and settled across from Dick. Slade also had an omelet and mystery circles, only his mystery circles were drizzled with the orange sauce. Dick’s eyes burned from either his own fatigue or from whatever spices Slade used while cooking. Maybe both. 

“Polenta?” he asked again. He took another bite of his omelet, whilst glaring at the other plate as if the rounds would grow legs and skitter away if he didn’t.

“Fried green tomatoes,” Slade offered, cutting one of his own fried green tomatoes with the edge of his fork and popping it into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed, and then added, “with remoulade.”

Dick blinked. “You spoke words,” he said, “but I’m not sure what they mean together, in that order. Also, remoulade doesn’t look like that, remoulade is the obnoxious French mayonnaise Bruce’s caterers serve at events.”

Slade cut off another piece of his fried tomato, dipped it into Dick’s tiny bowl of sauce, and held it out to Dick. Dick leaned over the table to take the bite. He immediately reared back.

“Ho-ee shih, ‘as hot,” Dick whined around the food in his mouth. His tongue burned, his throat burned, he could feel tears gathering at his waterline. Slade snorted and took another bite for himself.

“It’s horseradish. Try a bite without the remoulade. Maybe blow on it this time.”

Dick swallowed, drank from his glass, and glanced down at his own stack of tomatoes. He cut one with his fork, blew on it, and took a hesitant bite.

Without the raging hellfire of horseradish, it was kind of delicious.

They ate in silence, Dick scarfing down more food now that the initial few bites had settled his stomach. His remoulade remained untouched, but Slade just took it for his own, and so when they finished, their plates were clear (even Dick’s mutant omelet.)

“That was fried,” Dick said, as they washed dishes together. Really, as Slade washed dishes because Dick was preoccupied with pressing behind Slade and burrowing his hands underneath Slade’s shirt to play with Slade’s chest hair. “You usually won’t even eat fast food with me.”

Slade hummed and flexed beneath Dick’s hands just to hear Dick’s pleased purr. “You needed the calories. Don’t start expecting it, Billy’s going to be an ass about it when he comes home and sees the bacon I set aside for dinner.” 

“’S that what I smelled this morning?” Dick murmured, nuzzling Slade’s back. “I thought maybe you hid it in the omelet. I’m craving it now.”

“I needed the grease,” Slade said. He set the last dish on the drying rack and wriggled free from Dick so that he could turn around. Dick fisted Slade’s apron and stood on his tiptoes. Slade regarded him coolly. “You can stay for dinner if you want it so badly.”

Dick blinked in surprise but then grinned. He pressed a kiss to the corner of Slade’s lips. “If you insist.” 

**Author's Note:**

> It's not written into the story, but Slade paid for his farmers market purchases with money he earned whilst intimately & sensually strangling Monsanto/Bayer executives with his bare, veiny grandpa hands ;)


End file.
